


Things You Said

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Drabbles, F/F, F/M, M/M, prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 16,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles inspired by <a href="http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/144304392624/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a">this Tumblr post</a>, of all the things that were said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. with no space between us (Jack/Bert)

**Author's Note:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin: a collection of drabbles prompted by [this Tumblr post](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/144304392624/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a). Feel free to hit me up with more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First up: "Things you said with no space between us" (Jack/Bert) for gaslightgallows.

“This is a bloody stupid idea,” Bert muttered.

“I couldn’t agree more, Albert, but necessity is the mother of invention.”

“Sure that ain’t Miss Fisher?”

“That too,” Jack said dryly, staring into his pint of beer.

The next time Phryne Fisher sashayed into his office in a particularly sensual outfit, fed him his favourite foods, then asked for a favour, Jack Robinson was going to immediately walk away. Run, if necessary.

The problem was, her voice would stop him before he even reached the door, and the reasoning would be so damned logical--she would never ask for help unless she absolutely needed it, making it difficult to say no--and he would find himself undercover in a seedy illegal club, watching the man she suspected was swindling his lovers out of their life savings. His _male_ lovers; there was absolutely no way that she could do this task herself. And no way that Jack could be here in an official capacity, an objection she’d neatly sidestepped with a cheery “Of course not, Jack. That’s why I’m sending you and Bert together.”

Yes, next time he was fleeing the minute he smelled her perfume.

The target stood, moving across the room to another table near the edge of the so-called dance floor. One that neither Jack nor Bert could make out from their current position.

“You gonna ask a bloke to dance, Robinson?” Bert muttered around the end of his cigarette.

“Not when that thing’s in your mouth,” Jack replied.

“A romantic, are you?” Bert said, stubbing it out and standing.

They moved to the empty dance floor; it wasn’t a perfect cover, but the only one they had, and Jack was keenly aware that they would need to pass scrutiny. He hadn’t danced with a man since he was fifteen and practicing steps with mates so they could impress girls; definitely nothing slow and close. Thankfully he was very good at improvisation; there was a brief struggle as they determined who would lead, but it was soon enough settled.

It was a strange sensation, the feeling of a man in his arms--Jack had grown accustomed to Phryne’s furs and silks, and Rosie’s before that, both decidedly feminine--but not entirely unwelcome. The roughness of Bert’s suit, the masculine scents… he closed his eyes, reminded himself that he was there for a job, and not even with the protection of his police credentials, and tried to focus.

“Bloke’s watching us,” Bert muttered, directly into his ear, his breath hot. “We’re gonna have to do somethin’ and soon.”

And for the second time in his life, Jack took the excuse of an undercover assignment to do something he had wanted to do for awhile.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he muttered, laying his hand on Albert Johnson's face and kissing him soundly.


	2. when you were drunk (Jane/Ivy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @omgimsarahtoo prompted Jane/Ivy "things you said when you were drunk"
> 
> (Ivy is an original character that shows up in Squirrel-related fics. I think there's enough context, but she's Jack's niece and her father died in the war.)
> 
> And hey, if you want to prompt me from the list, I am always looking for distractions! :D

Ivy sat in the back garden of Wardlow; all the lights were on on the bottom floor, and from a distant room she could hear music and revelling. She’d retreated outside, giving her Uncle Jack a wry look as he snuck up the backstairs at the same time. Neither of them had Phryne Fisher’s love of crowds.

“Hiding?” asked a voice from behind her, and Ivy tensed.

Jane Ross was quite possibly the most complicated factor in her return to Melbourne; Uncle Jack’s pseudo-foster daughter was funny, intelligent, passionate. Well travelled but still possessing that sharp edge that had allowed her to survive on the streets. She was also utterly gorgeous, with her light brown hair and grey eyes; the last revelation was not one that Ivy liked to examine too closely.

“Just catching my breath,” Ivy lied, turning to look at her.

She was lit from behind by the light of the kitchen, giving her a halo. How apt. She was also carrying a bottle of champagne and two glasses, and held them out to Ivy.

“You’re a bad influence, Janet,” Ivy laughed, popping open the cork and pouring them each a drink.

“You love it,” Jane replied, scrunching her freckled nose playfully before coming to sit beside Ivy.  “And don’t call me Janet.”

Ivy raised her glass in a silent toast, and Jane clinked hers. Then they drank, heads tilted back to watch the stars, and talked. They were most of the way through the bottle when the topic of Jane’s mother came up; Ivy had wondered but never ask. It had always been enough for them to know that neither remembered their fathers. But the champagne and the company had loosened her tongue, and she told Ivy the whole story. Or not, perhaps, the whole story. But enough; a mother unable to cope with a newborn and widowhood, her struggles, her manic paranoia, Jane shouldering the burden for too many years. Finding Phryne through sheer luck--diamonds found on the side of a railway line, and Ivy bit her tongue before she said that diamonds were always found in the roughest places--and her mother’s eventual return.

“She’s in a hospital now. The sort of place where they won’t call their patients mad, because you don’t pay that sort of money to be insulted,” Jane laughed, slightly bitter. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

Ivy reached out to stroke the back of Jane’s hand.

“I’m sorry.”

Jane inhaled sharply, pulling her hand away and tucking her hair behind her ear. She looked at Ivy intently. Considering. Ivy felt herself flush. But her eyes were also slightly glossy, and Ivy realised how much they had drunk.

“May I kiss you?” Jane asked, voice unsteady.

 _Yes_ , thought Ivy. But she could not. Jane was upset and tipsy and in no fit state to even consider the question.

“No,” she said firmly.

Jane’s lips twisted in disappointment.

“Will you hold me then?” she asked. “I’m so tired.”

Ivy extended her arm, smoothing Jane’s hair as she leaned in. She smelled of jasmine and lavender--one a soap and one a perfume, Ivy thought--and was delightfully warm. After a few minutes, Jane snored quietly and Ivy laughed in delight. Then she pressed a kiss to the crown of Jane’s head.

“Ask me another time, my dear Janet,” Ivy said quietly. “But not like this.”


	3. when we were the happiest we ever were (Jack/Phryne)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said when we were the happiest we ever were", prompted by @bill0014. She requested fluff or smut, and this is somehow neither...

The rain was thudded against the windows of her small London flat as they stumbled through the door, laughing as Jack shook the umbrella and placed it in the umbrella stand. Phryne quickly shed her coat, handing it to her waiting butler, then set to work on removing Jack’s while he grumbled.

“Miss, you may wish to read the newspaper I have left on the side,” said Mr. Hill stiffly; he really had not adjusted to life with Phryne Fisher. It was a good thing they had no intention of staying in England much longer.

“Is the fire lit?” she replied.

“Of course, miss.”

Jack was watching her. He always seemed to be watching her, as if he expected to wake at any moment and find himself back in his small Richmond bungalow. She grinned as wickedly as she could, just for the pleasure of seeing his face soften and then grin itself.

“Please do not disturb us then,” she said, grabbing Jack’s hand and dragging him through the door to the parlour.

“You’re still wet,” she purred, deftly removing his jacket and waistcoat.

“So are you.”

She wore a dress, and so was left in nothing but her lingerie a moment later.

“And your trousers, Jack. Look at the cuffs--soaked through.”

“It’s this awful English weather,” he replied, removing them swiftly. Then he looked down and grinned--shirt and tie over underwear and socks with garters. It was both appealing and ridiculous, though he seemed to favour the latter.

“You may as well remove it all,” she said. “The damp just sinks right in.”

“You too then,” he said, brushing one hand across the silk of her camiknickers. “Silk gets chilled so easily. Don’t want you to catch a cold.”

And so they stood, equally naked in her front parlour, and laughed again. Then she leaned up to kiss him, leading him to the chaise where a fur throw lay with nothing more than the gentle tug against his lips and the knowledge he would follow her anywhere.

His hands against the skin of her hips were cold, and she shrieked.

“Not quite yet, perhaps,” she said, flopping onto the throw. “Come here Jack and we’ll warm up together.”

He pushed his rain-soaked hair from his forehead and grabbed the newspaper Hill had left out before taking the final few steps. She draped herself against him, under the pretense of sharing body heat, and drew the fur around them. Then she snatched the newspaper from his hands, laughing at the photograph of them both on the front page of London’s most prestigious newspaper.

“Better than the society pages,” she laughed. “I should have become a lady detective years ago. And look here--they’ve called you ‘Miss Fisher’s mysterious police companion’! Isn’t that a hoot?”

He gave a low rumble of approval, the wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

“I’ll miss this,” he said quietly.

She knew what he meant. London… London was a dream. He was the guest of a peer’s daughter, and afforded the liberties of such. It was perfectly natural that he would visit the Fisher residence with impunity; there was no scandal in sleeping there. He had no job to do, and was free to be whoever they wished him to be. Melbourne would grant him no such freedoms, and his leave was rapidly running out. Their return by ship was only a few days away, and they had not yet navigated any of the hurdles headed their way.

“So will I, darling,” she replied, tilting her head back to kiss him. “But…”

There were no promises she could make, no utterances of love she was ready to share. His arms tightened around her, warm and strong.

“Jack, even if this becomes complicated… even then…”

_It was worth it. It will be worth it.  
_

“I know, Miss Fisher,” he said quietly. “Even then.”


	4. under the stars and in the grass (Jack/Phryne)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said under the stars and in the grass" for Meldanya. And given the prompt, could I write about anything else?

It’s a small wedding; he wonders, just briefly, where Collins and Miss Williams families are, how they could be so small-minded as to miss this moment. He doubts either one of them notice the absence, their eyes are only on each other. It is not, he knows, a certainty that life will be kind to them. But he does hope, for both their sakes.

His own eyes are captured by a golden vision, one that will be nothing more than a memory soon enough. She says she’ll return to Melbourne before long, but it is a long journey with many distractions. He cannot presume that a staid detective-inspector and a household full of family will be enough to call her home in the face of that. She would not be the woman he loved if it did.

(Not that he doesn’t want her home. And she might even do it. But to take it for _granted_? That is beyond him.)    

Vows are exchanged; she is beside him but separate. This is the way of things, and he has come to appreciate it. It will feel like an absence, once she is gone, to no longer know that in his hour of need she will emerge with a golden gun and a diamond smile.

Then the ceremony is over, so lost is he in his own melancholy contemplations, and he follows her from the church. There are cheers and tears and a bride so radiant that she almost, _almost_ eclipses the woman of his own attentions. He watches the two embrace and Mrs. Collins order her safe return. Jack would never presume such a right, but it makes him smile.

Then she is gone. Mrs. Collins, that is. Phryne is still before him.

“Oh Jack, look,” she exhales quietly, pointing to a star shooting through the sky.

He barely spares it a glance. He has been silent the entire time, she has not looked behind her to catch sight of him. And still she trusts, _knows_ , that he is by her side.

It is not the last words they exchange before they part--there’s some banter and goodbyes--but it is the words he guards closely. The memory he photographs in his mind is the way she looked to the sky, glowing in the lights from the church, the lines of her profile and the sheen of her black bob, and _knew_ he was there. She may as well have reached out and taken his hand.

He’s never flown in his life, and he thinks she’s half-mad to even consider this flight to England. But with that one simple sentence, he is certain he’s no longer on the ground. It is fitting; his eyes have been turned skyward for some time now.

 

\------

 

“Come after me,” she says the next morning, in a grassy airfield he does not remember driving to. She’s smiling and happy and it is more than he ever thought possible, that somehow this leap of faith is mutual, that there is the possibility he will not lose her when she goes.

“What did you say?” his heart is thumping wildly and he’s smiling, because there is no other way to react.

“It was a romantic overture,” she declares with a toss of her head.

She’s never been one for subtlety, and he appreciates that more than ever.

“Say it again.”

He’s heard her. She’s heard him. There’s no need to repeat it aside from the sheer joy of hearing the words between them.

“Come after me, Jack Robinson.”

So he does.


	5. when I was crying (Dot/Hugh)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said when I was crying" for Kanste. Not sure if this is fluff as such, but it's something?

Dorothy Williams was not having a good day. First Mr. Andrews had died--Father Grogan would be horrified to learn that a small part of her was satisfied by this development, even if he was a Protestant--then there’d been that strange woman swanning in and asking favours from her. She’d been nice though. Much nicer than Mrs. Andrews. Then there’d been the telephone. Repeatedly.

And now she was being arrested.

She mumbled a prayer, managed to keep herself together as that strange woman--Miss Fisher, she thought, with some sort of first name she’d never remember--offered her her card. and slowly made her way to the car with the two police officers. As she passed the telephone it rang again and that was it; she began to sob.

“It’s alright, Miss Williams,” whispered the constable, blushing furiously when she looked at him.

She couldn’t remember his name, but she did remember that he had retrieved the dropped napkin that afternoon--she almost felt bad about that deception, but Miss Fisher had made it sound so reasonable--and had been charming in his slightly fumbling manner.

They left the house via the front door--Mrs. Andrews would likely have a fit if she knew, and Dorothy couldn’t help but feel that she was clinging to any small detail so that she didn’t faint. Murder? _Murder_? She cried harder. Murderers were hanged. And her mum couldn’t afford a solicitor, not with Thomas’s school fees and Molly’s wedding in the summer, and besides what would a solicitor do? Dot stumbled in the darkness of the Andrews’ driveway, and felt large, warm hands catch her before she fell.

She turned. It was the constable--Hugh, she suddenly remembered, it was such a handsome name--and he smiled slightly at her.

“It’s--it’s alright, Miss Williams,” he stuttered. “Just answer the inspector’s questions and it will be sorted in no time. You’ll be home in time for cocoa before bed. Not that--that is… I don’t mean....”

He fumbled mightily as he tried to save face, and it was enough to make Dot giggle.

“Just listen to the inspector?” he finally managed.

As if he had heard, the inspector turned and regarded them both coolly.

“Collins!” he barked. “Please place Miss Williams in the police vehicle. And do refrain from promising suspects cocoa. The tea is barely palatable; I cannot even begin to imagine what station cocoa would taste like.”

“Yes sir,” Hugh said. Then he dropped his voice and leaned in towards Dot slightly. “He does have biscuits he shares with the really cooperative witnesses, but don’t tell him I told you.”

Dot took a deep breath as she slid into the police motorcar. Right, these circumstances were awful. But she had the card of a clever woman, her own wits, and a rather sweet constable on her side. She would make it through.


	6. through your teeth (Phryne/Jack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said through your teeth" for whopooh

Phryne’s return to Australia was not _quite_ going to plan. There’d been that minor incident with the plane, the jewel thief on the cruise ship, and when she’d changed ocean liners in Ceylon--the jewel theft investigation having delayed her first ship--she’d uncovered a rather nasty gambling ring. Not a single murder--she really was losing her touch--but she had made her way back to Australian soil two days before. Unfortunately she’d done so under the pseudonym of Fern Holmes, and it was that guise that found her in the gambling den in the back of what first appeared to be a perfectly mundane Greek restaurant as the police led a raid… and nobody had the first clue that she had returned. It really was terribly inconvenient.

Thankfully, she recognised the coat and fedora (and the _voice_ ) of the officer leading the raid.

“Oi, copper!” she shouted, grabbing her dagger from beneath her skirts and throwing it _precisely_ two inches left of his head.  

He ducked, slightly, then a very familiar pair of blue eyes met hers for the first time in months. His lips thinned noticeably, and she wasn’t certain if it was amusement or irritation. Clearly she’d be gone from Melbourne too long.

Jack strode towards her briskly, grasping her arms and pulling them behind her back.

“Miss Fisher,” he hissed into her ear, voice rumbling.

“It’s Fern Holmes,” she said brightly, struggling slightly against his restraint. “And you ain’t gonna make me talk.”

It would take two seconds to really be out of his grasp--she was well trained and he would never actually attempt to control her over something like this--but it served her cover well. And if she happened to grind against him slightly in the process… well, that was just common sense.

“Then you’ll come to the station,” he said.

She felt the click of cuffs on her wrist, and faith in Jack or not her first instinct was to fight against it; his thumb stroked the skin at the edge of her wrist softly.

“There’s too many people for one station to process,” he said against her ear and through his teeth. “You need to stay with me, Phryne. And for god’s sake, put up a fight.”

She did, and he shouted at her as he pushed her out the door; all throughout his thumb never stopped stroking her arm, as if he could not stand to not be touching her.

She really not stand to not be touched by him. Not any longer.

Once outside he placed her in the police car, and she saw him properly and up close for the first time in a long time. He leaned against the door frame, keeping--to anyone who looked on--her from escaping. She had _missed_ him.

“I have no doubt there’s a lockpick somewhere on your person,” he said, eyes dropping to her decolletage. “Don’t make me confiscate it.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” she asked, grinning at him.

“If these people make you, _Fern_ , even that golden pistol of yours might not be enough to save you,” he said deliberately. “ _This_ is why I couldn’t come to England… and somehow I am not surprised to find you in the midst of it.”

“Not surprised, but pleased I hope?”

He grinned slightly at that, the tiniest little upturn of his lips that made her want to kiss the corners until it broke through completely.

“Very,” he said. “How long have you been back?”

“Tuesday. Haven’t even managed to go home yet,” she said. “Don’t you need to get back to the raid?”

He cast a look back at the building, where officers were beginning to emerge with prisoners.

“Mmm,” he agreed. “Can’t be caught talking to you like an old friend.”

“There’s nothing old about either of us,” she winked. “So get this done, lose the arrest paperwork for Fern Holmes, and meet me for dinner?”

He looked at her dryly. “Do you know how much paperwork this is going to be? I don’t think either one of us will be out in time for a decent dinner.”

She pouted slightly, just for the pleasure of watching Jack’s eyes drop to her lips in hunger.

“Fine then, a nightcap.”

He nodded slowly and adjusted his hat.

“That, Miss Fisher, can be arranged.”

Her return might not have gone to plan, but it was turning out very well indeed.

 


	7. that I wasn’t meant to hear (Jack/Bert)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said that I wasn’t meant to hear" for @omgimsarahtoo
> 
> An immediate followup to ["Things you said when there was no space between us"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6842407/chapters/15619792).

To absolutely no surprise, Bert tasted of tobacco and beer, but there was an underlying hint of something--mint, possibly--that caused Jack to sweep his tongue along his mouth as if to catch it. He forced himself to keep his eyes open-- _damnit Jack, you are a professional_ , he scolded himself--and turned them both under the pretense of the dance, in order to observe the table where their suspect sat.

He broke their kiss but didn’t pull away, so that when he whispered his observations--the man was making a move, they’d have to leave if they wanted to follow him, they needed to be careful--his lips brushed against Bert’s at every word.

“And for Christ’s sake, focus. No running off half-cocked--”

“Chance would be a fine thing,” Bert cheeked back.

“I’m serious,” Jack hissed, turning away to get his coat and follow the suspect.

“You’re a hell of a kisser, Robinson,” Jack heard from behind him.

Jack turned and shot Bert a look of surprise, ready to reprimand him for… whatever it was Jack could reprimand him for, then noticed a slight blush steal over the man when he realised he’d been heard. Interesting.

Jack moved in close to Bert’s ear, breathing out softly just to feel the hitch of breath against his shoulder.

“ _That_ was a mere distraction, Albert,” he exhaled. “You should see what I can do when I’m not on duty.”

Bert winked at him. “Pretty sure Miss Fisher don’t mind a bit of pleasure mixed with business.”

Jack had to admit, the man had a point.


	8. that i wasn’t meant to hear (Mac/Rosie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said that I wasn't meant to hear" for Meldanya. Second out of three pairings with this prompt!

Rosie Sanderson shifted on the bench, twisting her gloves in her hand. Her face was the picture of serenity, because she had no idea how to be otherwise. Joan hadn’t come, citing the children, but Rosie had no such excuse. This was the very least she could do for those girls. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference, really--Rosie’s work with various women’s groups were the route to make an impact--but she still felt she had to do it.

Her father’s trial had finished the week before; seven years in gaol, and given his previous profession Rosie was not certain he’d survive it. She almost wished he wouldn’t. Now it was Sidney’s turn, and she hoped he hanged.

A woman came and sat next to Rosie. She seemed vaguely familiar, but Rosie really was in no shape to place her. From the corner of her eye, Rosie made an assessment--a man’s suit cut for a woman’s figure, brassy red hair swept up, an ice blue cravat that matched the steeliness in her eyes.

There was the sound of a door opening and closing, and Rosie turned her attention back to the courtroom. Sidney had been escorted into the room, and Rosie breathed in sharply as his eyes scanned the room.

“Bastard,” muttered the woman beside her.

Sidney winked at Rosie, and her stomach churned. She turned away to find the mystery woman watching her appraisingly.

“My fiance,” Rosie breathed quietly. “ _Former_ fiance.”

“You’re the inspector’s ex-wife,” the woman said; it wasn’t a question.

“I really do not care to be defined by the men in my life,” she said curtly, before she could stop herself.

The woman chuckled quietly.

“I can see why Phryne likes you,” she said.

Rosie furrowed her brow in confusion; what did Miss Fisher have to do with it?

“She’s abroad,” the woman offered, “and asked me to report on the outcome of the trial. I did not expect to see you here.”

“Yes, well… somebody had to make sure justice was done.”

The woman sighed.

“I am surrounded by noble idiots,” she muttered under her breath--Rosie always had keen hearing--then spoke up. “I’m Elizabeth MacMillan. And I have a feeling that by the end of the day you are going to need a friend to drink with.”

The name helped Rosie place her; a doctor at the women’s hospital with a… reputation. She couldn’t suspect that Rosie…? Well, why not after all? It’s hardly like she could bring more scandal to the family at this point.  

“I rather think you’re right, Elizabeth,” Rosie said. "First bottle is on me."


	9. at the kitchen table (Dot & Mr B)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said at the kitchen table" for @omgimsarahtoo

Dot sat at the kitchen table and began to peel potatoes for gratin.

“The house feels empty without Miss Phryne,” she remarked, neatly depositing the peel beside her. 

“Miss Fisher does have a presence that pervades the room,” Mr. Butler replied. “And you, Dorothy? How do you feel about it? You must feel the absence keenly.”

Dot sighed.

“It’s silly, but I thought she would be here to teach me about married life.”

Mr. Butler raised an eyebrow at that, and Dot blushed furiously.

“I don’t mean--of course she’s never been married, and any advice she has about… other… well, that’s not what I meant at all. I meant… since I met her, she’s taught me how to be a modern woman. And now I’m facing Hugh’s mother  _ and  _ mine, and I’m not entirely whether they hate each other or us more and I could use her…” she gestured loosely with the knife in her hand.

“Laissez-faire attitude?” Mr. Butler suggested. 

“Complete lack of interest in what other people think of her,” Dot said. 

“Yes, she is remarkably resilient in the face of other people’s opinions.”

“I just thought… I didn’t expect to be alone.”

“With all due respect, Dorothy, you are not alone. You have Miss Fisher’s teachings, your own strength and courage. And you have Hugh, who--despite his occasional missteps--loves you deeply,” Mr. Butler said gently. “Perhaps it is time to think less of what Miss Fisher would do and more about what the Collinses will do together?”

“Oh, I don’t--” Dot began, then sighed. “I suppose we’ll just have to muddle through.”

“You know, some of my happiest memories were made by muddling through with Mrs. Butler.”

Dot smiled slightly, thinking of her husband, gentle and fumbling and considerate. Not that Mr. Butler would mean...well, regardless of what he meant. Her Hugh was the best man she knew.

“The house still feels empty,” she said, picking up another potato.

“That it does, Dorothy. That it does.” 


	10. after you cuffed me (Phryne/Jack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A direct follow up to ["Things you said through your teeth"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6842407/chapters/15768826), as requested by lucyschroeder. Bit of an odd one because it's also for whilenotwriting, who has been wondering for ages whether or not it's possible to write dialogue-only smut. The answer to that is "I suppose, but why would you want to?"
> 
> And as always, feel free to prompt me with a pairing and item from the list!

“Why Fern?”

“Why Archie?”

“Middle name.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet.”

“Phryne—”

“There you are. Fern, Phryne. Close enough I can claim I was mumbling if I slip up.”

“...That is remarkably mundane for you. Another drink?”

“Please. Of all the times for Mr. Butler to be out of town. Locked out of my own house.”

“I hear there are hotels for that sort of situation.”

“I can go to one if you’d like—”

“Please, stay.  
      ... Did you just kiss me?”

“If you’re uncertain, I clearly didn’t do it well.  
     That’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Do it again.”

“Gladly.”

“Mmm, that was definitely a kiss.”

“So kind of you to—  
      mmm…. Why, hello Jack.”

“Don’t toy with me.”

“I’m not, darling. I wouldn’t. I might be a lot of things—I drive too fast and leap without looking and I really have no idea whether I could manage exclusivity, though I am willing to give it a try—but I would never toy with you. This tie, however…”

 

“That _just_ missed the fire, Miss Fisher.”

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

“If you’re going to be flinging my clothes around the room without regard, perhaps the parlour is not the place to—  
     mmmm—”

“Then take me to your bedroom.... Oh _fuck_.”

“Good ‘oh fuck’ or bad ‘oh fuck’?”

“An ‘If you keep doing that with your hand and my breast we aren’t making it to the bedroom and that’s where my internal device is’ oh fuck.”

“That’s a surprisingly articulate ‘oh fuck’, Miss Fisher.”

“I’m a surprisingly articulate woman, Jack.”

“ _Nothing_ you do is surprising at this point.”  

“I can remedy that.”

“Do you always talk this much?”

“I can remedy that too.”

 

 “How— ooohhh, _fuck,_ Phryn _e_. How did you manage to undo my trousers without my noticing?”

“Hmm?”

“Ngh.”

“You’re usually far more erudite than that, Jack.”

“Yes, well, I’m usually not standing in my parlour with my cock in your mouth while you— oh shit!”

“You _do_ have a dirty mouth; I’m impressed. Better or worse than ‘oh fuck’?”

“Nghhh. Try them both again so I can compare.”

“Well, well. Aren’t you demanding?”

“I’m sorry. I meant—”

“I know what you meant. I was _joking_ , Jack. Now lets see if I can wring another curse or two out of you… what would provoke a ‘bloody hell’ for example?”

“You would have to be far more naked.”

“That can easily be arranged. Which way is the bedroom—  
      _Ooof_! I suppose that’s one way to escort me there.”

“This alright?”

“Well, I can’t say I woke up this morning expecting to be literally swept off my feet by a handsome detective-inspector—I was aiming for sergeant at the highest—but I have no complaints.”

 

“Mind your head on the door.”

“Head injuries are much more your habit than mine, Jack. This is your bedroom?”

“Guest room. I thought you might need to retrieve your device from your bag. And the bed will suffice.”

"Good choice."

 

“I meant to ask: how did you ever did you convince the ring—”

“No work, Jack. If we’re to—a-ha, there it is. Ingenious device—if we’re to do this that it’s best we start as we intend to go on. I don’t share my bed with casefiles. Can you help me with the buttons?”

“Happily, Miss Fisher. Just hold still.  
      … Do you always wear lingerie like that?”

“Generally.”

“I will never be able to to work when you’re sitting on my desk ever again.”

“Oh, Jack, I do hope I’m not… _distracting_.”

“Utterly. Come here.”

 

“Ooohhh, oh god. Oh god that’s… _fuck_.”

“I thought _I_ was supposed to be the one swearing.”

“Can’t let you have all the fun, Jack.  
     Oh god, do that again, but feel free to dip lower—my breasts do so enjoy a good tongue.”

“Get on the bed, and lose the lingerie; I’m aiming a little south of your breasts.”

“You are full of surprises.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem, just—  
      Ahhh!”

“Phr—”

“Don’t you bloody stop. That’s—ahh. Mmhmm, yes, there.  
      Oh, _there_!  
           Oh, fuck it, get up here...”

“Hmm?”

“As delightful as that is—and we are revisiting the matter at a later date, _ohhh_ —I want _you_. Now.”

“Device?”

“I’ll put it in while you undress. Because I swear if we don’t—oh GOD, Jack—if we don’t—”

“Do you know how good you taste?”

“Show me….  
      Mmm, yes, that is rather nice. Clothes _off_ , inspector."

 

“Phryne, are you certain—”

“Jack Robinson, I have waited very patiently. If you chicken out when we’re both naked and _clearly_ interested—impressive, by the way—I don’t know what I’ll do. Probably scream, and I’d much rather be screaming your name.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Cocky.”

“You love it.”

“I do appreciate a bit of witty repartee, Jack, but all those pretty promises are useless if you’re all talk and no trousers.”

“Perish the thought.”

 

“Come. Here.”

“Phryne…”

“Just kiss me, Jack.”

“Just kiss?”

“Until you’re ready for more.”

“And you?”

“Exceedingly ready. Feel.”

“My god, I forgot how warm…”

“Oohhh, your _fingers_ ….  
      Don’t be embarrassed, darling. It’s lovely, isn’t it? Think how good it will feel when you’re inside me. Here, lie down.”

“Miss Fisher—”

“Is this alright?”

“I’d have to be mad to decline. Oh _fuck_.”

“That’s the plan… mmmm, yes. Hold me steady while I just—”

“ _Jesus Christ_!”

“The thing with my hips or my hand?”

“Both, Miss Fisher.”

“Again then?”

“Mm...ahh! Bloody hell, Phryne.”

“A 'bloody hell' already! And we’re just getting started….”


	11. at 1 am (Mac and Phryne)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said at 1 am" for @omgimsarahtoo

Mac popped open another bottle of champagne and regarded her drinking companion. This return to Australia was welcome, but it also worried her; Phryne had always been impulsive and tenacious, and understandably fierce regarding her beloved sister. Perhaps this new ‘lady detective’ business would help. On the other hand, this was Phryne; it very likely wouldn’t. She remembered that inspector--”Good looking but dour,” Phryne had proclaimed him, “and married. I can always tell.” as if Mac gave a damn--informing them over breakfast that Phryne’s escape from the Turkish Bath House would have gone hideously wrong if he and his constables had arrived only minutes later.

Basically, Elizabeth MacMillan was back on “Keep Phryne Fisher alive and out of gaol” duty. Champagne, in hindsight, might not be the drink called for. She filled Phryne’s glass with the bottle in hand and reached for the whiskey.

“Did you meet with the Premier?” she asked.

Best to clear the air between them; they had been friends too long to ignore the matter.

“I did. It’s a start, but not enough by itself,” Phryne said.

“You won’t go it alone?”

Phryne shrugged. “I’m not making any promises, Mac. Father drank himself into a stupor when the news came to the estate, and Mother telephoned me in a fit.”

Phryne’s need to parent her parents was an eternal weight on her attempts to live her life unencumbered. The distance might be good for her on that front, at least. Mac sighed.  


“I remember her too, you know.”

Janey Fisher had been Phryne’s little shadow, following them even on the rare occasions they hadn’t wanted her to. And now she was Phryne’s darkest sorrow, there in sunlight and in dark.

“I know. And it’s why I can’t ask you--”

“You aren’t asking, Phryne. That’s the damn problem. But it’s your life. You know I’m here, and I can’t do anything else.”

Phryne’s lips twisted into a sad smile, just for a moment. Then she raised her drink.

“To dear friends and new adventures,” she toasted, then curled her feet beneath her and leaned forward excitedly. “Now, I need to know all the best things to do in Melbourne. Where’s the dancing? The music scene? The men?” 

“Do I look like I am the best source for any of that?” Mac asked dryly.

Phryne laughed, bright and loud. 

“I have missed you terribly, Mac.”

“And I you, Phryne,” Mac said, raising her tumbler in salute. 

This might be a terrible idea, but she  _ was  _ very glad to see her friend.


	12. over the phone (Phryne/Jack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said over the phone" for @omgimsarahtoo

The telephone rang, and Jack capped his pen and picked it up; it was late, and he’d seen the constable on the front desk go for a cuppa a minute before. Best to just answer himself.

“Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson speaking,” he said tiredly.

“Hello, Jack!”

“Miss Fisher?” he asked incredulously, wondering if he’d fallen asleep at his desk.

“Well, _yes_. I don’t think I’ve been gone that long, Jack.”

“...Are you home?”

She’d sent him a telegram from London only a week before, indicating that she would be in England for quite some time. Not even Phryne Fisher could get back to Australia that quickly.

“Afraid not, Jack. Father’s still insisting that he can manage the finances… At this rate, you’ll be eligible for long service leave and able to meet me after all.”

That was still two months away. And then nearly a month travelling.… He sighed.  

“Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that; Melbourne’s crime rate has rocketed without you.”

“I suspect that’s the global financial crisis, not my absence, Jack.”

He smiled; he’d missed her sharpness. Telegrams and letters were not the same.

“How are you…?”

“I was just visiting an old friend who has been working on the new radiotelephone service between England and Australia, and he wanted to try it out. I tried to think of who I knew that was certain to be awake and near a telephone at this hour…”

“Glad my work habits were a convenience,” he said dryly, with no bite to it. He was glad to hear her voice. And, he suspected, that was not the whole story.

“Well, now that we know it’s a success--how is the connection on your end? It’s rather crackly here--”

“Crackly here as well, but clear enough that I knew it was you.”

“I am rather unmistakable,” she laughed. “Now that we know it works, it’s best I let you go. I know it’s late.”

He would not go so far as to say she sounded regretful, but a hint of wistfulness clung to her words. He smiled slightly.

“Of course. And Phryne? Happy birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a cheat here. I _swore_ I read that the first England to Australia telephone call was December 1929, but a quick google is showing that it was set up sometime in 1930. However, considering the show uses a quote that is not only NOT Da Vinci but wasn’t even around in 1929, I will pretend that the 1929 date is in fact accurate in the MFMM universe and Phryne knew about it.


	13. when you were crying (Jack/Bert)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said when you were crying" for gaslightgallows. The (unintentional) chasteness of these CommoCop drabbles are beginning to crack me up...

It was an hour past his shift when Jack heard a commotion at the front of the station, and a belligerent voice ranting about state oppression and police brutality. He sighed, capped his pen, and strode to the door of his office.

In the foyer was one very drunk Albert Johnson, flanked by two officers.

“Drunk and disorderly, sir,” said one of his constables.

“Inspector,” Bert slurred, forcing himself upright with a grimace.

“Albert,” replied Jack curtly, then looked at his officers and jerked his head to tell them to leave it. “Come through to my office.”

Bert lurched away from Jack’s officers, muttering under his breath as he passed Jack. The cabbie reeked of beer, and when Jack reentered his office and shut the door, he opened a window to compensate. Then he sat back in his chair and waited expectantly. When no explanation was forthcoming, he leant forward.

“Care to explain your current situation?”

“Whatsit to ya, Robinson?”

“Well, to begin with, I suspect Miss Fisher would be quite put out if I allowed you to be arrested.”

“She ain’t here though, now is she?”

Ahh, lovely. Drunk and melancholy. There was a very real chance that this was going to end with Jack booking Bert himself.

“I believe Miss Fisher is in Sydney with her aunt until next week, yes.”

“And Cec’s on his honeymoon in bloody _Lorne_.”

Which, to the best of Jack’s knowledge, left Jack as the closest thing Bert had to a friend.

“What sort of rabble-rousing lunacy led to your arrest?”

“Nuffin’. Just didn’ wanna go home is all.”

Ahh, refusal to leave a pub. But there was a look in Bert’s eyes that Jack had seen in too many men. Jack sighed.

“I’ll drive you home,” he said. “Let me finish this report.”

 

\------

 

Bert’s home was a tiny bungalow, no doubt owned by Phryne and offered as part of Bert’s employment. Jack was thankful for the lack of shared walls and stairs as he helped Bert through the door; he considered the parlour, but given the state of things--Bert had slipped from belligerent to mournful--the bedroom was probably best.

The house seemed empty; the only personal details Jack could see was a knitted throw over the back of an armchair that had seen better days and a beer bottle left on the side.

In the bedroom, Bert stumbled to the bed and tried to remove his boots. Jack sighed again.

“Are you prepared to tell me?” he asked, loosening the laces.

“My mate Billy," Bert slurred. "Came back from the war, only brung it with 'im. Another bloody casualty.”

It was an old story. One Jack heard less often these days, but still.

“I’m sorry, Albert.”

“Sorry don’t bring ‘im back, Robinson. Now it’s jus’ me and Cec left, in Melbourne. The rest of us are scattered, th’ ones that survived.”

Boots off, Bert shuffled slightly and lay on top of his doona. Jack fidgeted, realising that he was alone, with Bert, sitting on his bed, and the man was looking at him with tears in his eyes. Jack coughed; he was not the type who was good at comforting others. Too lost in his own thoughts, too reserved to show physical affection.

“I should…” he gestured towards the door.

“Stay?”

Jack almost didn’t hear him; he didn’t believe what he had. There had been the… incident, when they had been undercover several months before, but nothing before or since. Never even followed up that promise about kissing--chasing the suspect _into_ the Yarra had managed to put it out of their thoughts entirely. And it wasn’t like either of them to be… well. The point was, Bert must have been out of his mind to ask.

“No funny bus’ness, jus’ a bitta company.”

Jack nodded, slowly.

“Tea?” he offered.

“Please.”

Jack retreated to the kitchen, making two cups. He couldn’t find a tray--he doubted Bert had one--so carried the tea carefully back into the bedroom; Bert was already asleep. Jack drank his tea, watching Bert’s restless slumber; when he’d drank both cups, he loosened his tie, removing his jacket and cufflinks. Then he climbed into the narrow bed and waited for morning.


	14. when you were crying (Dot/Hugh)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said when you were crying" for whopooh

The moonlight was peeking around the edge of the curtain when Dot woke up, her mother’s intuition tingling. She glanced at the bedside clock, noting that Agnes should be waking up soon. Hugh was not yet home from work, it seemed; his side of the bed was not slept in and his uniform was not laid on the chair in the corner.

She heard a murmur and sighed, getting out of bed and slipping on her robe and slippers. Aggie would be wanting a feed, and it was much nicer for everyone if it happened before the girl got worked up. She stepped into the hall and froze; there was a soft light coming from beneath her daughter’s doorway.

Dot took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. No doubt she had just left a lamp on in her tired state, but she’d been with Miss Fisher too long to ignore the niggling concerns settling in her gut. She stepped forward, easing open the door silently.

The first thing she noticed was the empty cot, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming. It was just a split second, and then the door opened further and she saw her husband and daughter nestled together in the chair she’d selected for middle-of-the-night nursing and bedtime stories.

“And then,” Hugh was whispering, “the man in the moon came down and said ‘Good night, Aggie. Good night mummy. Good night daddy.’ as they settled in their beds.”

The infant giggled, and Hugh’s lips quirked into a tender smile.

“It’s your grandad’s birthday today,” he said, smiling at their daughter. “He would love you so much, darling girl.”

Dot stepped into the room, reluctant to interrupt this moment but knowing Aggie would start to wail for a meal soon. Hugh looked up, and she noticed the tears falling down his cheeks; she wondered if he even noticed.

“Did we wake you?” he asked quietly, and Dot shook her head.

“No, but she’ll be hungry soon.”

He nodded, standing carefully and ready to hand the girl over; he seemed almost embarrassed to have been caught, and Dot reached up to caress his cheek.

“You’re a good man, a good husband, and a good father, Hugh Collins,” she said quietly. “Your father would be proud. And so will Miss Agnes here, once she’s old enough.”

“And you, Dottie?”

She gave him a small, reassuring smile. The adjustment to parenthood at not been terribly easy for either of them.

“Very.”


	15. while we were driving (Jack/Rosie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said while we were driving" for Meldanya
> 
> As ever, feel free [to prompt me](http://firesign23.tumblr.com/post/144304392624/send-me-a-ship-and-one-of-these-and-ill-write-a) here or via Tumblr.

“I still cannot believe Father bought one of the first motorcars in Melbourne!” Rosie exclaimed.

Jack shot a look at his wife; she’d removed her hat--they hadn’t seen anyone else for ages, and she wanted to feel the wind in her hair--and loosened the buttons at her throat. Her father would have an absolute fit if he saw her. Whereas Jack was liable to have a fit of an entirely different matter, the way his pretty Rosie was looking at him with so much trouble and promise mixed in her expression.    

“If his diatribe on it hasn’t sunk in by now, my love, there’s no hope it ever will.”

She laughed, raising her hand to cover her mouth at the sound. The diamond ring--the stone was far smaller than she deserved, but she was so fond of diamonds--glinted in the summer sunlight.

“You’re terrible, Mr. Robinson!”

“That will be Sergeant Robinson soon,” he said with a wink.

“Still. Father was so kind to lend it to you for the weekend--” she laughed again, unable to complete the reprimand. “Oh, I love my father, but I think he loves this vehicle more than he loves Joan and I combined, and only a little less than he loves you.”

“If he did, he’d be a fool,” Jack said, sincerely.

“Pull over, Jack,” Rosie breathed; her hand had come to rest on his thigh.

“Rosie?”

“Pull. _Over_.”

Jack did; there wasn’t much difference between the road and the side, but he did. A moment later Rosie was in his lap, her mouth on his even as she muttered a curse about her skirts and the cramped space. He laughed in response, moved to catch her, found her stockinged ankle beneath the skirts and caressed it .

Rosie gave a small moan.

“Oh Jack,” she said. “You’ve been studying.”

“I have,” he confirmed. “But not about the seduction of a lady’s ankles.”

“Oh, not the ankles? Wherever could you be aiming then, darling?”

“I’d show you now, but there’s not nearly enough room.”

“That does sound promising,” she said throatily. “I’ve been studying too.”

She slid off his lap in a whirl of cotton and taffeta, coming to perch on the floorboards in front of him, her hands seeking beneath his waistcoat. He felt his braces release, then her hand slip into the band of his trousers.

“Rosie--”

“Shh, Jack,” she said, palming his cock. “Who knows _when_ we’ll have another chance to try this.”

Jack closed his eyes and leant back in his seat. It seemed such a shame to waste the opportunity.

   


	16. at 1 am (Mairi and Jack, Mairi and Ant)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A double prompt from gaslightgallows, "Things you said at 1 am" with Mairi and Jack as a child, and Mairi with Ant as a child.
> 
> (For those NOT following along, Mairi and Ant are OCs--Mairi is Jack's mother, and Ant is Phrack's kid.)

Mairi pushed the door to the small bungalow open, sighing heavily. The Wildt boy had taken ill, and she’d stayed out past midnight to try and help. They’d had to call a doctor in the end, but she’d made him comfortable. Alaric Wildt was Jackie’s age, an enormous blonde boy she’d seen around the neighbourhood a few times.

She hung up her coat and hat, then headed towards the kitchen to make a cup of tea. As she passed the parlour she realised that the fire was still burning.

“Andy?” she called; her husband should have been in bed hours ago--his shift at the gaol meant he would wake up well before dawn--but perhaps he had fallen asleep in the armchair.

There was a scrambling and a thump, and she stepped into the parlour just as Jack’s head popped over the back of the chair.

“Allo mum.”

“Jack Robinson! What sorta time do ye call this?”

The seven year old glanced at the clock on the mantel, then grimaced.

“Late?”

“Bed! Now!”

“But I just--”

“Now!”

“Mum, I just--”

“Where’s yer father?”

“He went to bed, same as Dan. But I only had a page left in the chapter and he said I could finish.”

“And how long ago was that, laddie?”

He pulled the lock of hair that fell into his eyes at the smallest opportunity.

“Four hours.”

“Right. Four hours.”

“But mum, it’s about pirates and--”

“Bed, Jackie.”

Her son climbed down from the chair--she suspected he’d been tangled in a knitted throw and hanging upside down to read by the firelight--and gave her a cheeky grin as he walked past her.

“There’s one pirate who--”

“ _Bed_!”

He was out of the room before she allowed herself to smile; her younger son was the keenest learner she’d ever met, so quiet and observant and a voracious reader. The schools they could afford weren’t enough for a bright boy like him. Which is why she was out at all hours of the night helping neighbours. The Wildts didn’t have money to pay, but the mother had offered to teach Jackie German, and maybe a friend Jack’s age was what he needed.

She sighed, remembering that cup of tea she hadn’t made, and headed towards the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

Mairi eased open the door to Anthony’s room, and found her grandson sprawled across his floor, both toy and living dog beside him, flipping between two books.

“What sorta time do ye call this?” she asked, and he looked up.

“Hello Nanny Mairi,” he said, and his cheeky grin and unruly curls were so reminiscent of his father that she caught her breath.

“It’s well past midnight, Anthony.”

“I don’t know what midnight is.”

“Nor should ye, at yer age. Bed!”

“Is dad home yet? I was looking at the book Grandfather sent me from England, about the stars? And dad says that it was an inconserate gift because we’re Australian and our stars are different, and Mims said that ‘That’s father for you, but nevermind he’s happy’ and anyway the stars in this book are called names I can find in _this_ book--” he held up an anthology of Greek mythology, and Mairi laughed, “--and it’s all very interesting and I want to show him.”

“I admire yer studiousness, laddie, but yer Mims will be home tomorrow and wonnae be impressed that I let ye stay up this late.”

“Oh, Mims doesn’t mind.”

“ _Bed_!”

The boy closed both books, placed them on his bedside table, then climbed beneath the doona on his bed.

“Up, Chip,” he ordered, and the beagle leapt beside him.

Mairi shook her head once more, gave the boy a kiss, and turned out the light. It was unnerving how similar her grandson was to his father before the war, before he’d gone from carefully reserved to unreachable. Those had not been easy days, and she hadn’t realised exactly how bad they’d gotten until Rosie had moved in with her sister. Still, he’d come back… not to her Jackie, not quite--she could never expect that, not with what he had seen between the war and the job--but to happiness.

And that was quite enough melancholic contemplation for one day. She headed downstairs, intending to make a cup of tea, and found the subject of her reverie sitting at the kitchen table with the kettle on the range.

“I didnae hear you come home?” she asked.

Jack looked up from the folder of papers he had clearly brought home with him and flashed her a wan smile.

“Just a few minutes ago.”

“I’ll make the tea, shall I?” Mairi asked, shaking her head. “Ye boys never change, ye ken? I jes’ found Anthony reading in his room, and ye down here doing the same.”

“Ant’s still awake?”

“Aye, or was a few moments ago. Nose in a book like his father.”

Jack’s grin was a mixture of pride and amusement, and Mairi laughed.

“You jes’ encourage him,” she scolded lightly. “Both as bad as each other.”

It was Jack’s turn to laugh.

“You think he’s bad now, wait a week. We’ve bought him _Treasure Island_ for his birthday.”


	17. I wasn't meant to hear (Phryne/Jack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said I wasn't meant to hear" for both @kanste and @omgimsarahtoo

Phryne deftly picked the lock to Jack’s small bungalow, intending to drop off his birthday gift and make a hasty retreat. He was working an evening shift and would no doubt go home despite Wardlow being closer, determined not to be a nuisance. It was mildly vexing to be rebuffed so thoroughly, but he was who he was. And it was better he sleep in his house on inconvenient nights than it was for him to find excuses not to stay with her on others.

She slipped inside, noticing a light had been left on his study. How unlike him. She was halfway down the hall when she heard his voice from the closed door.

What was he…? Oh no. He couldn’t, couldn’t be… no. They’d been so clear. Not even for him. Her hand flew to her mouth to muffle her whimper. And he’d been so adamant that they go out for dinner tomorrow, his actual birthday, and had refused to tell her the plans beyond dressing well. Which she always did, but that was… no. No. Jack Robinson was most adamantly not rehearsing a Shakespearean marriage proposal in his study while she stood on the other side of the door after _breaking into his house._ The universe could not be that cruel.

Except that was exactly what he was doing, she realised as he launched into the same speech with a different inflection. His low tones were so damned _persuasive_ ; she would agree to half a dozen marriage proposals before she realised when he spoke like that. And then she would have to renege, because she did not intend to get married. If she kept her wits about her she could decline immediately. Presuming he did not propose in public. No, Jack was far too private for that. Small mercies. So all she would need to do was decline and hope that it did not end matters between them. (It wouldn’t, she was certain. And if it did, it was not a proposal she could have ever accepted regardless.)

He launched into the speech once more and she dropped the package in her hands at the sound; in truth, she’d forgotten entirely about the book she’d intended to leave on his pillow.

There was a thud and the study door opened, and Phryne found herself face-to-face with Jack Robinson.

“Miss Fisher?” he asked incredulously.

“Hello Jack, darling!” she said. “I was just bringing your birthday gift by.”

“You don’t have a… Phryne, _please_ tell me you didn’t break into my house. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I was quick and it was dark, Jack. Nobody noticed.”

“Phryne…”

“Well, what about you? Why aren’t you at the station? You said you were working late.”

“No, Miss Fisher, I said that I could not come by tonight because I was unavailable.”

She thought back; damn it all, he was right. He’d never specified that he was working, she had assumed. And now she’d overheard him reciting a marriage proposal-- _Twelfth Night_ , she thought, though she was hardly the expert he was--and had no excuse.

“I’ll just…” she motioned towards the door awkwardly, then realised his gift was still on the ground at her feet.

She bent down to pick it up, and when she stood he was standing right before her. There was a look in his eyes, a battle between wary and amused.

“Here you are, Jack,” she said with forced alacrity. “Just a little gift for my favourite policeman.”

He took it, then looked at her.

“Just your policeman?” he asked deliberately.

“Well, policeman and favourite lover,” she amended. “And now I really must be going, I’ve so many--”

“Phryne.”

“Yes, Jack?”

“You wouldn’t have happened to have overheard me just now?”

“Not a word, darling,” she lied.

“Not even the gist of my speech?”

“No, no speech. Silent as the grave out here.”

“So I presume you dropped my gift out of sheer clumsiness?”

“Well, it has happened,” she said defensively.

And at that, he began to laugh loudly.

“Phryne, love, your inability to tell even a small untruth is rather endearing,” he said. “Let me telephone the neighbour’s daughter and let her know I can’t help her run lines for her school performance--”

“Oh no.”

He grinned. “Oh yes. I’ll tell her I can’t run lines tonight, and you can entertain me with an explanation for your presence in my house.”

She groaned. “This fool doth think she is wise, but the wise woman knows herself to be a fool.”


	18. when you were scared (Phryne/Samson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said when you were scared" for Meldanya
> 
> I _asked_ for a Samson prompt so I could fix the fact that Phryne never sleeps with him, then wrote this instead.

He noticed the girl sneaking from beneath the tent canvas the first night the circus was in Melbourne, after the show. She was slight, with short dark hair and a general air of grubbiness. She paused and turned, and a moment later a second girl appeared--younger, smaller, blonde hair plaited. Then the girl turned again, tugging the blonde one’s hand, and saw Samson watching them.

She dropped the girl’s hand immediately, moving in front as if to block Samson from her entirely. She looked at him without flinching, her blue-green eyes hard. This was a girl ready to fight, not demurely apologise and cry to get out of trouble.

He liked her already.

Samson took a step towards them, attempting to pad gently; there was no helping his size--even at fifteen he stood a head over everyone but the show’s strongman, and he was not done growing--but he did not intend to frighten them.

“Janey,” the girl said over her shoulder, voice steady as she bent to grab a rock, “when I say so, run.”

Samson stopped his advance, ducking his head and holding his palms up in submission.

“I won’t rat on you,” he said.

He expected gratitude and was met with suspicion.

“Good,” spat the girl, “I ain’t gettin’ in no trouble for this.”

“I’m Samson,” he said, then pointed through one of the paths towards the gate. “Go through those caravans and you won’t see anybody.”

The girl continued to glare at him until the blonde--Janey--tugged her hand.

“Phryne, we have to get out of here.”

The girls moved together, and were almost out of sight when he called out.

“There’s another show this evening.”

 

\------

 

She tried to come to every show, sister usually by her side. Some evenings, when she couldn’t, she slipped away after she’d been sent to bed and met Samson after the performance. They would sit on boxes beneath the stars and pass a cigarette back and forth as they talked.

Samson told her how he’d joined the circus at eleven, doing small jobs, and it was the only thing resembling a family he had.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Mine's always there.”

She told him about her father’s temper, her mother’s denial. She spoke more fondly of her sister and her cousins, but swore it was not enough.

“Do you think I could join?” she asked, taking the cigarette from his hand.

He didn’t mention that her hands shook as she did so, undermining her bravado. She was looking for an escape; people often were, when they came to the circus.

“Do you have any skills?”

“I can pick a lock with my hands tied behind my back,” she said boldly. “That has to be good for something.”

“And what about your sister?”

“She’ll come with me, of course,” she declared. In the darkness, the end of the cigarette glowed. “We pirate girls stick together.”


	19. at 1 am (Mac/Rosie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said at 1 am" for Meldanya.

Rosie lay sprawled on the bed, looking rather deliciously flushed.

“With a tongue like that, Doc, I think I may well be halfway to in love with you,” she laughed, then froze at her own words.

Mac gave a tight smile; they’d been very evasive about where this was leading. Rosie was still gunshy--a divorce and a criminal fiance had rather turned her from men entirely, and slow to open to anyone--and Mac didn’t want complications. Especially not with her best friend’s whatever-he-was’s ex-wife. Unfortunately, it appeared that there was a total of a dozen people in all of Melbourne, and Mac had no intention of passing by one so appealing. She kissed Rosie’s neck, appreciating the resulting groan, and the brunette’s fingers reached up to tangle in Mac’s hair

“You can’t mean again already,” Rosie protested, holding Mac against her throat. Beneath her tongue, Mac could feel the thudding pulse, taste the salt on her skin.

“No?” Mac asked.

Rosie shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Alright.”

Mac pulled away slightly, meeting Rosie’s eyes. In the light from the bedside lamp it was even harder than usual to describe the colour, a green-grey that had taken Mac’s breath away the first time they’d met. And the second. And every time since. But now there was a glimmer of tears, adding another dimension to the colour.

“Rosie?”

“I’m fine, Doc,” she said, her small mouth forming a terse moue.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Mac huffed.

“Do you… discuss your lovers? With other people, I mean.”

“Not as a general rule. It’s a rare woman who is able to be open enough for it to be possible.”

“Not even with Phryne Fisher?”

Fucking complications.

“Phryne’s been my best friend since I was twelve. But no, not generally. Not without discussing it first,” Mac said. “She’s always been supportive, but not everyone appreciates her… particular manner of support.”

Rosie’s hands were still tangled in Mac’s hair, and she pulled Mac towards her face insistently. The kiss was a bare brush of lips, more a promise of a kiss than a real one.

“That doesn’t bother you?” Rosie whispered against her lips.

Mac shrugged. “It’s what it has to be. I can wish it was different or I can appreciate what I do have.”

Rosie kissed her again, a little firmer this time, then moved one hand down to Mac’s breast. Mac gasped, and Rosie laughed. It was a rich laugh, throaty and a little bit dirty. With a laugh like that, Mac was halfway to in love with her.

“It bothers me,” Rosie confessed, “and I wish I knew what to do about it.”


	20. when you should have said good night (Phryne/Jack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said when you should have said good night" for whopooh. Inspired by a Friday night rewatch of Dear Air where we wondered if Jack had ever slept at Phryne's place as a guest, since they do drink often enough that even a careful man might occasionally over-indulge.

Later, she can’t remember how they got anywhere near the topic. She hasn’t known Jack long, liked him for even less; the prickly detective is slyly funny and honest and easy to speak with. They don’t often brush against serious topics--she’d dismissed it with her 1918 line early on--but there was something in the air this night; it might be the weather, or the case, or the fact that it’s Janey’s birthday, but whatever it is she finds herself staring into her whiskey tumbler.

“Do you have any siblings, Jack?”

He takes a long sip of his own drink, jaw clenching.

“A brother,” he says quietly. “Older. Didn’t come home from the war.”

Perhaps that is why she feels such an affinity for the man; they both had their only siblings snatched unfairly.

“I had a sister,” she offers in return. “Janey. She disappeared.”

She sees the sorry on his lips, but he doesn’t say it, just pours them both another whiskey.

They end up talking for hours, swapping stories about his brother Dan and her sister Janey, until they notice the time. It’s well into the early morning, and he is too drunk and too emotionally spent to head home.

“I have a guest bedroom,” she offers, then laughs. “Well, several. You won’t even have to stay for breakfast if you don’t want to.”

He nods, and she shows him to the largest of the rooms.

He’s gone in the morning.

 

\------

 

Foyle has been in her house, spoken with her daughter. Phryne is torn between fear and anger, and when they return inside the first thing she does is retrieve her golden pistol. The weight is reassuring in her hand. Jack, tie still askew--it seems forever ago she was teasing him, loosening it, looking for a reaction as much as a reminder--glances at it.

“Do you have another?” he asks.

“One or two,” she replies, thinking of Mr. Butler’s impressive arsenal.

He nods. “I would have to go to the station to sign out a police-issued one, but…”

And the comfort of a gun in her hand is nothing next to the comfort of Jack Robinson as her ally; she trusts, intuitively, that he is doing his duty as a police officer and as a friend, but never as her saviour.

“How do you feel about a Mauser?” she asks.

“It’ll do.”

She leaves, comes back with her second favourite pistol.

“I’ll have to be at the station early tomorrow,” he says.

She nods. “I’ll have Mr. Butler check that the guest bedroom is ready.”

 

\------

 

He arrives at Queenscliff for a murder and a Spanish doubloon, and she’s surprised by the turn it takes. Away from the city, he is still Jack--steadfast and intelligent and damned good at his job. But those glimpses she has seen of a playful man are fulfilled; there is flirting and banter and some very naughty exchanges that drives her to seek release alone in her bed that night, her mind drifting to the man across the hall.

It’s worse when they arrest Gerald McNaster; he calls her name as he rushes to her aid, looks at her curiously when she brushes off her near escape with the murderer. The adrenaline leaves her more drained than she cares to admit, and she takes an early night.

Her dreams are filled with his voice, and when she wakes up he meets her in the corridor between their rooms and explains that he’s heading back to Melbourne before breakfast.

 

\------

 

When Dot and Hugh’s engagement party is finally over, it’s already late. Jack is the last to leave, and she wonders whether he’s waiting for the after-effects of the champagne to wear off. He’s usually so careful, but clearly something has changed this night. He is in her parlour, playing her piano gently; Phryne watches for a moment, wondering what it would be like to have those hands play her, when he catches her gaze and grins sheepishly.

“Don’t stop because of me,” she says, coming into the room and sitting beside him.

He resumes playing a Cole Porter number, and as they sing she wonders why he chose it. She thinks he might love her, and knows that he would never do a thing about it; he’d rather retreat than ever ask. When _Let’s Misbehave_ finishes, he moves on to something else. There’s no real rhyme or reason to his choices, and she dismisses her earlier speculation as a sign of her own ego. She plays a few melodies of her own, they sing.

She offers him another drink when they pause, and when he accepts she knows he will sleep in the guest bedroom and slip from the house before anybody else stirred.

It was enough for now.

 

\------

 

The dinner plans go so spectacularly wrong that Phryne can hardly believe that this is her life. Several drinks and a sherry glass of her father’s nerve tonic renders Jack unconscious. The guest bedroom Jack usually takes--has taken on occasion, at least--is occupied by her father, and the others are further down the hall. She directs Mr. Butler and her father to her own room, ignoring the baron’s pointed looks.

She sleeps in Jane’s room; it is nearest to her own bedroom so she can keep an ear out if Jack stirs in the night, but the bed is too short for Jack to fit. She doesn’t sleep as well as she would have liked. His impassioned speech, attributing the gaps between them to his own flaws instead of hers, echoes in her dreams.

He tries to sneak out the next morning, and it’s only her father’s jovial need to speak to everyone that stops him.

Instead of breakfast they are delivered a contortionist in a box.

 

\------

 

She wakes up when he tries to leave the bed quietly, and reaches out to hold him close.

“You have nowhere to be,” she says. “No murder. No commitments. The only person you know in this country is me--”

“Not, strictly speaking, true,” he says, and she huffs.

“Too early for truth,” she complains. “Stay in bed. Have breakfast with me.”

He settles back down, draws the blankets over them both to block out the cool November air, and lets her press against him once more.

They sleep. And when they wake at a time of morning he usually saw after his third cup of tea, they eat.


	21. after it was over (Jack/Rosie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said after it was over" for gaslightgallows, with an extra request not to make it the angstiest thing ever.

Rosie spent the first two months after the arrests living in her sister’s spare bedroom and trying desperately not to fall apart. Joan, as ever, tackled the matter head on--with a marriage that ensured her financial and social security and healthy children, gossip was easily brushed aside or wrestled into submission. Rosie, however… she’d been the dutiful daughter who dined with her father every Wednesday, and fallen in love with that utter bastard, Sidney.

“You can’t be held responsible for what other people do or say,” Joan said firmly.

“Our father looked the other way while my fiance sold girls, Joan. What _other_ people think is really the least of my concerns.”

By the end of August, Rosie was desperate to escape the situation. She also had no money, little to no social standing, and very little options to remedy either situation. The answer came in the form of an invitation to lunch with Jack, when their paths crossed at the courthouse. A sympathetic ear would not go amiss.

After the meal, they took a walk along the foreshore, talking about mutual friends and old times. It was nice, and familiar, and Rosie began to feel like she was something other than the disgraced daughter and fiancee.

And then Jack stopped, reached into his suit pocket, and Rosie froze. Oh, no no no. She appreciated his nobility, but absolutely not.

“Jack--”

“Rosie--”

He tilted his head, hand still in his pocket, indicating that she go first.

“Jack, I care for you. But you cannot seriously…”

To her surprise, he laughed and she smiled back. It had been a long time since she’d heard the sound.

“No. I think we’re both too old and experienced to think that _that_ is a solution. But I have something for you.”

He extracted a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. It was a cheque, with a... not insignificant amount on it.

“Jack?”

“After the divorce, you didn’t want the house or any compensation for the years you invested,” he said. “I… wasn’t a good husband, Rosie. I wasn’t a good partner.”

“But you are a good man. The very best of them, I think.”

He tilted his head in that way she knew meant he was uncomfortable with the praise. She’d found it endearing when they were courting and maddening after they wed. Now it was just a familiar quirk in an old friend.

“The point remains, that money is yours.”

It wasn’t, strictly speaking; he was not obliged to offer her anything, and certainly not anything near this generous. Her fingers traced over the numbers. She meant to tease him for coming to her rescue once again--she’d always called him her crusading knight, early on--but the words stuck in her throat. The money would be enough to provide her with a small house and live off of for some time, and to help the girls. But the actual work would be on her.

“Thank you,” she said, and it wasn't just for the money.


	22. then claimed you never did (Phrack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said then claimed you never did" for whopooh.

“Did you know our victim?” Jack asked as they left the crime scene.

“Hmm?” replied Phryne curiously. “No, not at all. Why would you ask?”

Jack sighed. “You called him Liam. Do you have a last name, or next of kin we could contact?”

“I’ve never met the man in my life,” Phryne replied. “I’m certain I called him no such thing.”

Jack was equally certain she had. Her tone now was light--almost forcefully so--but the unmitigated anguish had been enough that Collins had turned to him in confusion. Still, he had learnt that attempting to force Miss Fisher into revealing anything was an impossible feat; she would reveal it if and when she was ready, wrapped in some lighthearted tale she trusted him to see through.

“My mistake,” Jack said. “A long night while we try to uncover his identity then.”

“Actually,” Phryne said, reaching her Hispano, “I hate to be an inconvenience, but I have the worst headache threatening. You’ll catch me up in the morning?”

“You love to be an inconvenience,” Jack teased, now utterly certain she was covering for something. “But of course I will. Do you need someone to drive you home?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine, Jack.”

Several hours later, identity discovered--not Liam after all, but Francis Horton--Jack drove to Wardlow; it was closer than his flat, and he hadn’t been back in so long he suspected the cupboards would be bare. He could sleep in the guestroom if Phryne was not awake; when she’d given him the key she’d told him he was welcome in her bed at any time of night--or rather, she’d made increasingly salacious comments on the matter while he feigned a lack of understanding--but if she was unwell he didn’t want to be a nuisance.

He hung up his hat and coat, slipped through to the kitchen for a light meal and spoke with Mr. Butler for a few minutes--Miss Fisher had retired early in the evening, her butler confirmed, and Jack decided that the guestroom was the way to go. He finished his supper, washed the plate (to Mr. Butler’s continued consternation), then headed upstairs.

The dim light of the lamp snuck from beneath the door of Phryne’s room, and Jack paused. Knocked lightly enough it would not wake her if she was sleeping but hard enough that she would be warned if she was not. There was a quiet, unidentifiable noise, then her voice through the door.

“What is it?”

Jack shifted from one foot to the other and back again. “May I come in, Miss Fisher? I need to collect my pyjamas.”

“Of course.”

He opened the door; she was in bed, lounging in a silk nightgown and smiling in a manner that screamed deception.

“Whatever do you need pyjamas for, Jack?” she asked, leaning forward.

“I thought I would use the guestroom tonight,” he explained, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “How is your head?”

“Much better, so don’t even think of taking up that lumpy old bed on my account.”

“Your guestroom mattress is more comfortable than any I have ever owned,” Jack replied dryly.

“But it doesn’t hold a candle to mine,” she flirted. “So get undressed, come to bed.”

Jack made short work of his outer layers, slipping between the sheets in just his singlet and trunks.

“Not quite as undressed as I’d intended,” Phryne pouted, shifting into the circle of his arms and laying her head on his chest. “I suppose it will do. How is the case going?”

“We found a name--Francis Horton--and notified next of kin. There’s nothing else to do before Mac has a look at him in the morning.”

“Hmm,” Phryne hummed. “That’s good.”

Her fingers came up to stroke the hair of his chest above his singlet, clearly thinking of something else entirely. Jack waited.

“Liam Adams,” she said eventually. “It wasn’t a headache, it was Liam Adams. He was my first soldier with a name. Well, they all had names. But it’s the faces I remember, every single one.” She laughed softly, without humour, and Jack caught her hand to hold it still. “I think I do, really--it’s not like I’d realise if I’d forgotten one. But Liam… it was my first day and he was in shock. Just kept repeating his name, his address in Perth, the names of his parents and the sweetheart he left behind. The resemblance with our Mr. Horton was uncanny.”

There was nothing that could be said to such a thing, so he brushed his palm down her arm and stayed where he was. After a few minutes she roused enough to press kisses against his chest, along the neckline of his singlet and up to his neck.

“Phryne?”

She pulled away to look up at him, eyes haunted. He tilted her chin upwards, just enough to kiss her softly.

“You’re here,” he said. “Alive and well and raising seven kinds of hell every day.”

She laughed at that, a sincere one, and kissed him again.

“I know,” she said, rolling over to straddle him, then undulated her hips. “Help me to celebrate?”

He caught the hem of her nightgown, lifting it up and over her head; she returned the favour, divesting him of singlet and trunks with a playful smile. They kissed again, messy and real, and laughed. It didn’t take the memories away, and they didn’t want it to. But it did make them easier to bear.


	23. at the kitchen table (Phryne & teenaged Ant)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said at the kitchen table" for gaslightgallows.

Phryne wasn’t certain what prompted her to go into the house through the kitchen rather than the front door, but she trusted her intuition. She was returning from a fundraising gala that Jack had begged off of at the last possible moment, which meant she’d danced with a new partner every turn, and not all of them were good. She was tired and her feet hurt.

Finding her son sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of cocoa and a grimace on his face rather put paid to her plans to fall into bed and not move for half a day.

“Ant?”

Newly seventeen and still outgrowing the last of his early teen awkwardness, he was a handsome boy; dark-haired and dark-eyed, he always seemed so serious until an opportunity for mischief arose, when he would happily dart into the melee with a witty comment or sly insinuation.

“Evening Mims.”

“It’s late.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Sitting at the kitchen table in his pyjamas, his hair sticking up in all directions, all she could see was that two-year-old he had once been. Which made his next comment particularly difficult to process.

“Mims, there’s this girl… and I like her. A lot.”

Phryne groaned. There’d been quite a few girls, which meant that the next words out of his mouth were likely to be some teenaged declaration of love. They had promised to always be open and honest with Ant, to make him feel like he could talk to them about anything; she was prepared for a lot of awkward conversations and suffered through a few, but somehow this particular one had never crossed her mind.

“All I can say is that a relationship needs to be built on more than attraction, as hard as that is to see at your age. You need trust and friendship and--”

“I know _that_ ,” he said with a laugh. “Dad made sure I did, and besides I have you two to look to.”

“Ahh, you’re inquiring about the more physical side of things.”

Well, she was well-qualified for that. Not that it made the conversation any more appealing.

“Yes,” Ant said, meeting her eyes. That was something; if he was too young to be upfront, he was too young to be thinking about it.

Phryne shook her head and sat in the chair across from him. “You’re enough of a budding Casanova without my help, if the moon-eyed girls calling the house are any indication.”

Her son blushed.  

“I’m not asking for techniques, Mims, just…”

She could either educate him or let him fumble his way through; she wasn’t naive enough to think that she could stop him. She stood up, retrieving a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers from the cupboard. She poured them each a drink, pushing Ant’s across the table. Her son raised a questioning eyebrow.

“We’re both going to need this,” she said. “Sex… there are very few rules about sex. The first is that it should be enjoyable for all parties. That doesn’t necessarily mean orgasm every time, but pleasurable. Which leads to the second rule: _pay attention_. Observe what your partner is doing, what they enjoy and what they don’t. And if you can’t tell, _ask_. And expect the same courtesy from anyone in your bed. Thirdly, use protection and be prepared for the consequences if it fails--as a man you can be supportive, but any difficult choices in that regard are not yours to make. So be prepared for any eventuality, and if you’re not than keep it to activities that won’t lead to pregnancy.”

Phryne paused there, trying to articulate her final point. She’d had her share of sex, good and bad, and she regretted none of it. Well, very little of it.

“Good sex can be many things, Anthony. Wildly passionate or slow and lazy; with a long-term partner or someone new; life-affirming, sombre, comforting, silly…. Silly is important, I think--if you can’t occasionally appreciate the absurdity of the situation, there’s no chance--but it’s all those things at different times. But good sex is _always_ respectful.”

Ant nodded, his serious expression letting her know that he’d heard. Then he grinned cheekily.

“So what you’re saying, Mims, is that I’m better off raiding your book selection for what I need?”

“Look on the second shelf, top row in the library,” Phryne laughed. “And start simple--some of those things took me years to master.”

She was teasing him, but his face was horrified. Good. She was all for openness, but this had been excruciating.

“And be quiet while you do it, Ant; I’m going to bed.”


	24. that I wish you hadn't (Phryne/Jack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Things you said that I wish you hadn't" for gaslightgallows. I could have taken this in such angsty directions, but she also requested that I not make EVERY prompt she gave me miserable. To which I say 'stop giving me angsty prompts'. But I tried. This was, in a much different format, a conversation that was supposed to appear as a flashback in Fear Not The Bugle--in the intervening months the topic has been explored a myriad number of ways, most with more finesse. But what's one more, right?

There was something fitting in Jack showing up on her doorstep the day her maid was out, leaving Phryne to answer the door herself. She stared at him for what felt like ages but was probably only seconds.

“You came,” she breathed.

He passed his hat from one hand to the other, a rueful smile on his face.

“I did.”

“You _came_ ,” she repeated.

“I can go again,” he offered, turning as if to do so.

Her hand darted out to catch his lapel, and as she pulled him towards her she realised he’d been teasing. It didn’t matter; she kissed him with an intensity that could leave him with no doubt that she wanted him to stay exactly where he was. Well, maybe not _exactly_ where he was--the bedroom had much better surfaces for what she had planned in the weeks they’d been apart.

“Lead the way then,” he said, and she realised she’d said so out loud. Or perhaps she hadn’t and he’d read it on her face.

“I don’t want to let you go,” she murmured between kisses. “Not ever.”

“Ever’s a very long time,” he replied between kisses of his own; she felt rather than saw the smirk on his lips. “What if I want to go to the botanical gardens? What if you try to drag me to another operetta?”

She bit him, lightly, then tugged him towards the stairs by his jacket.

“You are an absolute arse, Jack Robinson,” she said, laughing.

She almost missed the first step up, but his hands at her waist kept her steady.

“No broken bones, Miss Fisher.”

Now was the time she would usually make a quip about a good-looking physician making it worth the hassle, but she felt she had no desire to ruin the moment. She’d known, before she ever issued the dinner invitation, that Jack was not inclined to share her bed. It was why she had been so tentative, needing to ascertain whether she could accept that. Her men rarely overlapped, but Jack… Jack was a long-term prospect, and she needed to be _certain_ she could live with the implications. For both their sakes.

“Upstairs, Jack,” she replied. “I have every intention of keeping you.”

 

\------

 

He was… marvelous. As serious and playful and attentive as she had expected, and somehow something _more_ because it was Jack. And now they lay on her bed in a comfortable silence; she traced shapes across his skin, nestled against his shoulder. It was… she’d rather give this a chance than assert her right to sleep with who she liked. It was a novel sensation.

“Mmm, Jack?” she asked, tilting her face towards his. “You’re a million miles away.”

He looked at her, smiling wryly. “Not quite that far, Miss Fisher. Just thinking of the future.”

With a start, she realised that he’d come all this way without so much as a hint of exclusivity. She’d never said as much--between the dinner and the incident with her father’s nerve tonic and then nearly unrelenting investigations she hadn’t had the time before she’d left, and been so surprised by his presence before the flight. She opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. It was not doubt, but….

“Ah,” Jack said, raising his hand to silence her. “Let me speak first. Please.”

She nodded.

“Phryne, how many of your lovers did you ask--”

“Jack!” She bolted upright. How could he think…? “I--”

To his credit, he looked absolutely horrified.

“No! I didn’t--I meant... “ he sighed.

Phryne crossed her arms and watched him. It was Jack, and that meant there would be an almost aggravatingly logical explanation; but experience also told her that this is the moment thing could go horribly wrong, and her body was tense.

“What precisely _did_ you mean, Jack?” she challenged.

“What I was _attempting_ to convey, albeit poorly it seems, was that I won’t ask you to curtail your varied interests,” he said. Then he smiled. “Well, no, that is a lie. If we do this, I _will_ ask that you don’t sleep with suspects in our investigations, because that has the potential to cause some… difficulties in court--”

“You mean that tit could be argued that you charged them out of a personal vendetta rather than evidence,” she said.

“Unfortunately, yes. It's ridiculous, but out of my control."

She relaxed, reaching out to stroke down his chest. "I would never ask you to choose between _this_ and the job," she vowed.

"And on a similar note, we have some time before there are... _expectations_ , from others. But for the sake of my professional reputation if you could please be discreet if this becomes serious--”

Phryne laughed. “Jack, you’ve just came all the way to England. I believe the ‘serious’ boat sailed several days before your steamer did.”

He smiled his tiny half-smile. “But otherwise… tell me, so I don’t find myself scrambling in the midst of a case--don’t give me that look, Phryne, you know your old lovers have an unerring ability to find themselves embroiled in our investigations and vowing not to sleep with current suspects won't stop that--but do as you will.”

“ _Why_?” she asked; of all the ways she had imagined this conversation going, this was not one she had even contemplated.

“I thought it mattered, not being a part of your... what did I call it?"

"My parade of men?"

He winced. "Yes, that. Which was inexcusable of me, by the way. And it did, it _does_ , but not the way I thought.”

“And I repeat: Why?”

“Phryne, you up and flew your father to England even though you want to strangle him half the time--don’t, by the way, that’s a test of legal versus moral right I do _not_ want to wrestle with--with the world’s least amount of preparation. Because that’s who you are. And I would never want to change that, and your... “

“Impulsiveness?”

“Vivacity,” he corrected, then smiled. “Your loyalty. Your heart. And yes, your impulsiveness. That’s why I… I don’t _want_ you to change that, not even for me. But you asked me to come with you, and that’s… that’s not something you’d ask of a bedfellow, or a casual friend, I think.”

“Just you, Jack,” Phryne said quietly. “And possibly Mr. B, because I am dying for one of his cocktails.”

He chuckled. “The point remains, Phryne, it’s…. You blew into my life, and you wouldn’t leave. But I was always waiting for the man who would bring the bigger adventure, the one you couldn’t resist--”

“Darling, I find my own adventures,” Phryne laughed, but she paused her stroking hand to rest over his heart all the same.

“I know. I _knew_. But you can’t deny that sometimes the man and the adventure are one and the same.”

“I really can’t,” she agreed. “Though I suspect most of them wouldn’t be quite so appealing if I had a… known alternative. Not all of them, maybe, but most; I’ll deny it adamantly if you ever repeat this, but I am actually exceptionally lazy on this matter,” he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes as if to determined whether she was serious, and she laughed. “But no matter what, that doesn’t mean I would ever--”

“I’d never accuse you of being unfaithful,” he said hurriedly, and she smiled. “Never that, Phryne. But it… you were on your next big adventure, and instead of leaving me behind you asked me to come with you. After you, technically, but we’ll presume that was because sticking me on the wing of the airplane would throw off the balance.”

She laughed loudly at that.

“It would. We wouldn’t have made it to Darwin.”

“Which would have been terribly unfortunate,” he agreed. “But you asked me to come and it was a distinction I’d never made before. And Phryne, I--I don’t want you to change who you are, not for me or anyone else.”

His jaw twitched, as if he’d meant to say something else and thought better of it. Well, there was no having that.

“Oh, I do so wish you hadn’t said anything,” she teased, stroking his cheek and pressing little kisses along his jaw. “Because now I am utterly convinced that you are the most ridiculous, honorable, liberal-minded fool of a man, and I love you for it.”

His breath caught, and when he exhaled it came with a bounding laugh.

“You’ll love me even more when you find out Mr. Butler sent me with several of his best cocktail recipes….”

“I do,” she agreed. “I very much do.”


	25. when you averted your eyes (Phrack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from whopooh

She knocked on the door of his cottage, fastidiously neat and well kept. It was so much like the man himself that she wondered, briefly, whether the building had been conjured from her imaginings. The inside would have a parlour with a well-worn armchair and one still nearly new, a library, a tidy bedroom without any personalised details, a kitchen that was not well stocked--she knew Jack cooked reasonably well, and baked with surprising adeptness, but his schedule was too erratic to purchase large quantities of anything fresh--and a garden that was a source of solace. She knew what she would find as the door opened, but that was not what worried her.

“Miss Fisher?”

“Jack!” she said brightly.”Surprise!”

He tilted his head to look at her, evaluatively, then stepped aside to gesture her in. She glanced around--there was a library, door ajar; the parlour had more art work than she had expected, but the two arm chairs and a pile of books on the table between them were just right.

“I was making tea,” he said. “Would you…?”

“I’m parched,” Phryne laughed, “and starving.”

“I’ll see what I can find. Make yourself comfortable.”

He bobbed slightly, like a buoy set adrift by her appearance, and Phryne sighed and took a seat in the rarely used chair. He rejoined her a few minutes later, tea and sandwiches on a tray.

“Not a patch on your household, but--”

“It’s lovely,” Phryne said firmly, pouring tea from the pot into both the china cups.

There was much to say and no place to start, so they ate the sandwiches instead.

“I wasn’t aware you were home,” he eventually said.

“This morning,” Phryne said, smiling weakly. “I’m sorry, I must have--”

She stood, reaching for her handbag.

“Please, stay.”

She paused, sunk back into the armchair that belonged to nobody.

“You know, that’s what I expected you to say all those months ago,” she said with a small smile, feeling the memory ache in her chest. 

“Yes, well… it wasn’t my place.”

“And where is your place, Jack? Behind your desk at the station, all firmness? Leaning on my mantelpiece with a drink in your hand and a smile on your face? Beside me or behind me whenever I need you?”

“You never _need_ anyone,” he said, glancing towards her before looking away once more.

“Answer the question, Jack.”

“All of them?”

“You could answer that with more confidence.”

“All of them,” he repeated, more certain this time.

“And what about my bed?”

He ate another sandwich, drank his tea. 

“Answer the question, Jack,” she demanded for the second time; scared to know his answer, but unable to bear not knowing any longer.

“No.”

“...I see.”

Well, that explained why he hadn’t come after her. She had to admit, it stung. He raised a palm up, pleading.

“I can’t--I don’t want that to be my place, Miss Fisher. Not if it would--”

“Clip my wings, like a sad little swallow?” she interjected, ready to have it out and move on. Somehow. “Or cause you to compromise your deeply held beliefs on fidelity? Or--”

“Have you ever let a man finish first in your life?” he asked dryly.

“I can’t always stop them. But I ensure I finish.”

He smiled wryly, raising his teacup in a silent toast. 

“Touche. But I do not want my place to become your bed. I may come--”

“You’ll definitely come,” Phryne purred, taking refuge in audacity as she often did.

“Phryne, _please_. Just listen. Please,” he pleaded. “I may come to your bed. There’s no denying that I would like to. But that… that cannot be my place.”

“And where is this place of yours then?” she asked, confused.

He looked down to his teacup once more, mouth twisting as he thought.

“My place is my own morality, and beside you as a friend and partner if you’ll have me. But the bed… I cannot bear for that to become my role, a derived pleasure and nothing more. I like to think that I am more than that, that I _mean_ more than that. To you.”

Relief flooded her.

“That might be the oddest romantic overture I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, I’m pleased to have achieved some notoriety.”

“Jack…”

“It’s fine, Miss Fisher. I hardly expected to be memorable at all; better remembered for bad reasons than forgotten entirely.”

“What happened to that dashing, assertive inspector that… Jack, why do you doubt _this_?”

She grasped his hands between hers, smiling at him; his expression was pained though, and with a final soft squeeze she released her hold and looked away. He sighed. 

“Because… there are some things too precious to gamble with, and I’ve held my chips too long to part with them.”

He didn’t want her. Or rather, he wanted the pieces he already had of her too much to reach for anything else.

“You think too much, Jack.”

“Probably.”

“I’m not going to change your mind, am I?”

His hand touched her cheek, so tenderly that she turned to face him, to meet his familiar eyes properly.

“Did you ever really want to?” he asked.

_More than anything._

She shrugged, not trusting her voice, and stood to leave.

“Until our next murder investigation, then,” she finally managed, her voice almost steady.

"Until our next murder investigation."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it was perhaps slightly cruel to leave it here. Luckily for you all, deedeeinfj [ wrote a continuation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8387995) that I suggest you go and read immediately. I'll wait. And then click on through to Chapter 26, which has the final part of this tale.


	26. when you couldn't say no (Phrack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from whopooh.
> 
> Since deedeeinfj so obligingly [fixed the last chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8387995), I figured I would share the bit _I_ managed to write on the fixing, a fluffier followup to the previous chapter that dovetails rather nicely with her fic. ;-) Which you should go read immediately, because it's marvelous.

“Jaa-ack,” she sing-songed.

Jack groaned and pulled the blanket firmly over his face. It should feel momentous, waking in Phryne's bed for the first time, but it was far too early in the morning for that sort of voice. It did no good, because he could feel her fingers playfully dancing up his chest.

“Yes, Miss Fisher?”

“Are you a gambling man?”

“Not particularly.”

She tugged the covers down, her feline smile softer with the natural pink of her lips and her hair slightly mussed. She was utterly beautiful, and she had offered him the world.

“Are you sure? There’s a new casino...”

Her eyes were laughing, even if the rest of her expression was a mask of sincerity.

“Illegal, I presume?”

“That’s half the fun, isn’t it?”

Her finger traced shapes against his newly exposed torso, her lips following. Jack groaned deep in his chest and closed his eyes.

“Go if you’d like, but I’m not getting you released if you get caught.”

She nipped his skin lightly and laughed.

“I can think of more interesting ways to waste my money,” she said. “But are you quite certain you don’t enjoy a good wager?”

Her tone was teasing, her hands caressing as they explored his body. He took a deep breath, trying to focus when every instinct told him to just give in and agree to anything she said so long as she kept doing what she was doing.

“Why are you asking?”

“It’s just I seem to recall a very noble, very silly man deciding that coming to my bed was too big a gamble.”

He’d been a fool, and he’d hurt in in the process. It had taken only a few days for his reservations to crumble in the face of her presence, in the reality of friendship and the look in her eyes when she did not realise he was looking, in stepping inside the night before to find that the world--his world--had resumed its natural orbit, in her strength and vulnerability when he could risk neither. In the certainty of them, regardless of what he had said or did or thought himself into believing.

He caught her wandering hands and rolled over her, smirking. Her lips parted slightly, begging to be kissed; he did, bumping his nose to hers when he was done.

“I think you’ll find, Miss Fisher, that it wasn’t much of a gamble after all.”


	27. via Shakespeare (Phryne/Jack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I still have a few of these prompts kicking around and found this one complete but never posted. And since I'm _trying_ to clear out my WIP folder, y'all are getting it. For whopooh, who prompted it.

“I love you,” he said softly.

Many men had said the words to her, when she had not foreseen their entanglement in time to set it aside, and her response had always been the same. This time she sat up, sighing, and slipped from the bed. She drew her silver robe around her, and looked to him. He was watching her, tentative but certain, and she felt his faith like a weight in her chest.

“It will pass,” she said, gently smiling as she always had; with any luck, he wouldn’t realise how tremulous it was.

She moved to the window, more to avoid his expression than any desire to see the midnight sky. The moon hung heavy, and banks of clouds rolled by with surprising speed. From time to time she caught a glimpse of one star or another, but most were obscured.

He shouldn’t have said it. It was better to pretend... it was better to pretend.

It would pass. It did. There were no constants in Phryne’s life--friends were easily made but just as easily lost, home was transitory, even the sky she turned her eyes to changed by location and cycle of the moon.

She felt Jack move behind her, placing his hand on her hip. She sighed, stepped back so her body was pressed against his.

“A good heart, Phryne, is the sun and the moon," he said softly, lips brushing against her ear and making her tremble. "Or rather the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes but keeps his course truly.”

“Shakespeare again, Jack?”

“It seemed preferable to me telling you that you aren’t a telescope,” he chuckled.

She turned in the circle of his arms, seeing the worry in the lines of his face, his love in the corners of his mouth.

“How is it, Jack, that you know exactly what to say?”

“I don’t,” he smirked, lowering his mouth to hers. “It’s why I rely on the Bard.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fall Where They May](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8387995) by [deedeeinfj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deedeeinfj/pseuds/deedeeinfj)




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